


Six

by L_E_D



Category: Original Work
Genre: Horror, Mentions of Suicide, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 15:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19022824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_E_D/pseuds/L_E_D
Summary: House number six will always invite in those who wish to leave.





	Six

**Author's Note:**

> I challenged myself to write something in second person. 
> 
> Eh, it's alright I guess.

 

You, just like everyone else in town, know of house number six. It’s story’s been told over and over, by local teenagers recounting horror stories, by parents trying to scare their kids into respecting their curfew, by the memorial plaque at the town cemetery. You had never particularly cared about its history but now, as the house looms over you, you feel as though its cursed past has been carved into your mind. 

 

This town,  _ your _ town, was born from a bet amongst rich men of the state. Seven of them had a wager as to who could hire the build of the largest, most extravagant house in just a few months’ time. And so, seven houses had been built, all next to each other in a line, creating your town’s first street. The story never really specified who the winner was, not that it really matters at this point. 

 

Eventually, friends and relatives of the rich men came and settled into the houses, and with their wealth came the growth of the area. The son of the sixth man moved into the sixth house with his wife. She had been declared mentally ill, and her young husband believed a change in scenery would help clear her damaged mind. 

 

His efforts were revealed to be in vain when, less than a year after their move, his wife slashed her own wrists on their bed and bled out against the silk sheets. It is said that, out of despair at the loss of the love of his life, the young man set his home on fire, locking himself inside. The flames spread from the sixth house to the others, setting the entire street ablaze. The incident resulted in over 15 deaths, including the suicidal couple, and in the destruction of all seven houses; save the sixth house. 

 

House number six, while badly charred, still stood amongst the ashes of all it had destroyed around it. The origin of the fire, where it had burned the brightest and the hottest, remained. Broken and battered, but still there. 

 

As you stand before it, you can’t help but think its vile history has been nothing more than a virus, seeping into the minds of the town’s people, poisoning their thoughts. Because after its first two suicides, the house had become a hotspot for self-inflicted deaths, its number of victims easily reaching the double digits in the past decade alone. Everyone in town knows of its darkness, and rather than contain it, each resident seems compelled to spread it best they can. Oh, the things that have been said over the years. You’ve heard the floors are now a cherry wood colour from all the blood that’s stained it. You’ve heard that all the staircase banisters are broken due to too many hangings; that, if you stand very still by its door, you can hear the departed wife inviting you inside. 

 

There’s even a saying spoken around town.  _ House number six will always invite in those who wish to leave. _

 

Maybe that’s why you can’t seem to step forward and open the door. You’re not here to leave; you’re here to try and get someone to stay. 

 

Ever since your brother’s return from overseas, he hasn’t been the same. His days are spent sitting on the porch of your house, staring out into the street with vacant eyes. You don’t think he ever registers what happens around him during those times. It’s a if, though his eyes are wide open, he isn’t really seeing. He exists here, but he’s only alive in the memories playing on a loop through his mind. You have no idea what those may be, but judging from the cries you hear from his room at night, you don’t think you want to find out. 

 

Despite your inability to save your brother from his own head, you do what you can. You make sure he eats at least twice a day, you fix your patio chair to make him as comfortable as possible, you even hire the kid next door to check up on him a few times a day while you’re a work.

 

Today however, after a dinner eaten in silence, your brother told you he felt the itch to take a walk. Too excited at the prospect of him finally getting out of the house for a bit, you immediately agreed. That was over three hours ago. The sun is set, the street lights are on, your brother is missing, and you are standing in front of house number six. Filled with regret at letting him go so carelessly, you pray to anyone willing to listen that the house is empty. 

 

You want nothing more than to run inside, to make sure he’s okay, to make sure he’s  _ not there _ . But you can’t seem to move. Your feet feel fused to the cement beneath them, all your joints locked into place. You can only stare and blink at the enormous wooden house before you. 

 

The windows of all three stories are broken, most of them crudely boarded up with rotting wood planks. The floor of the small balcony attached to the second story window is caved in, its broken pieces dangling dangerously above the main entrance. Bricks that had most likely once been the chimney now rest in disarray on the dead grass of the neighboring empty lot. A faint outline of the number six can be seen through the soot covering the wall next to the door. You know people sometimes come by to spray paint the house, but the graffiti never seem to stick around very long. 

 

You drive past this house every day on your way to work and never before has it ever frightened you. You’ve always considered it an eyesore, the greying, crumbling building sitting alone on an empty street. You’ve wondered a few times why no one’s torn it down yet. But it’s never scared you. Until now. At this very moment, a glacial fear grips at your soul, freezing you in place. You can’t move, but God, do you want to. You need to move, to find your brother, to save him, you’d do anything to save him, you’d- 

 

The front door swings open.

 

You feel your feet carry you inside.

As you step across the threshold, a deep sense of dread settles into your stomach,  and you feel all sound hushed into an eerie silence. It happens suddenly, like diving into a pool and letting the water fill your ears. You hadn’t realised how loud it had been outside. Crickets were chirping, street lights were buzzing, cars were rolling not two streets down from you. Yet, where you stand, barely a foot from the door, there isn’t a sound to be heard. 

 

Right before you stands a grand staircase leading to the second floor, the skeleton of what must have once been a chandelier resting broken at the bottom. You know you should look around, but fears tunnels your vision. You force yourself to take a step forward. The sound of the floorboards creaking beneath your foot startles you. With how quiet the house is, any noise feels too loud and out of place. 

 

You climb the staircase at a slow pace, unsure the structure is intact enough to carry your weight. 

 

The fire had rendered the second floor nothing more than one large room, most of the walls now destroyed, leaving behind supporting beams here and there. In the moonlight filtering through the boarded up windows, dust swims through the air. You feel the urge to hold your breath, as if your mere existence is disrupting the quiet of this place. 

 

All the way down to your left is a smaller staircase leading to the third floor, as well as what appears to be the only room still standing. You walk towards it slowly, too slowly, each step a fight against your terrified instincts. You stop before the door to the room, releasing a shaky relieved sigh. You’re done walking, it’s silent again. You press your palm against the burnt wood of the door, ready to push it open, when you freeze once again. Your heart is beating erratically and you can feel bile rising in your throat.

 

Suddenly, the urge to run away resurfaces, somehow even stronger than before. Every cell in your body is screaming at you to leave, to dash back downstairs, through the front door, and never look back. Your hand shakes against the wood. You want to listen, the need to run so powerful, and yet…

 

And yet, you know you can’t leave. For the same reason you came here in the first place. You can’t let your brother have survived all he did only for it to end here. You can’t let him go, because then his suffering would have been for nothing. So with the little strength you can summon to your arm, you push the door open.

 

You regret it immediately. Everything in this room is  _ wrong _ , you being here is  _ wrong _ . This was a mistake, this place goes against nature itself, the hair stands on your arms and on the back of your neck. 

 

The room is mostly empty, save for the metal frame of a bed in the far corner, and a dark shape collapsed onto the ground in its center. You look at it a little more closely, but just doing so is difficult; your eyes burn and water as if you were staring into an open flame. 

 

It quickly becomes clear the shape is a person, slumped onto the floor. Long dark strands of hair stick out from pieces of dark cloth. It’s still quiet, but God, does it feel loud, with every part of you begging you to leave. 

 

This person, however, is clearly not your brother, so you take a step back, ready to search through the rest of the house. Your foot hits the ground, the floor creaks, and the shape moves. Your breathing speeds up as the strands of hair lifts slowly from the ground and the person’s head rises to face you. 

 

You call it a face, but you know that isn’t right. The skin is grey and flaking, like dried plaster. The eyes are gaping black holes, carved into the skull with a shaking hand. The mouth hangs open losely, jaw unattached or absent, exposing the never ending abyss that is the creature’s insides. 

 

Along with its head, the rest of its body begins to rise, and you don’t wait around to take a look at that too. You grab the door by its edge and slam it shut in front of you, separating you from the creature. 

 

A voice resonates from behind the door, deep yet shrill, echoing through the entire house like a bell in a glass jar.

 

“One.”

 

You turn away and sprint back down the hallway, back to the grand staircase. Behind you, the bedroom door slams open. You pick up speed, and the voice calls out again, louder this time.

 

“Two.”

 

Your mind is filled with static as your lungs pulse and your feet grow numb. Shouldn’t you be at the staircase by now? Was it really this far?

 

“Three.”

 

The cry is even louder this time, and you flinch, your hands lifting reflexively to cover your ears. Another bang behind you causes the ceiling above your head to shake and dust to fall from the cracks above. Fear causes you to stumble, but thankfully, the banister stops you from falling over. The banister! If you’re close to it than that means the staircase should be- there, right in front of you. You practically fly down the steps, ready to fling yourself outside. 

 

But the front door isn’t there, only the solid wall of a hallway. Your mind is reeling. You were sure the entrance was  _ right next to the stairs _ . The absence of the door takes you aback, and your hesitance is just long enough for the creature to catch up to you, the banister breaking with loud noises of splintered wood as it slams into it.

 

“Four.’

 

You pick a side of the hallway at random and run down it as fast as your limbs allow. At the very end of the corridor is a door, your nearest possible exit. You reach it, out of breath, and grab the door handle yanking it open. You realise too late that the door doesn’t lead to an exit, but to a small closet space. 

 

The creature lands with a crash at the bottom of the stairs, and you lock yourself into the closet, out of options. 

 

“Five.”

 

The closet is ridiculously narrow, the walls hugging your sides, making it almost impossible for you to move. It’s pitch black and fear squeeze at your throat like a noose. Your breathing is heavy, and you press both hands against your mouth, willing your body to be quiet. 

 

Slowly, the constricting silence returns to the house, and you let your arms fall to your sides. You stand there, perfectly still, for what feels like an eternity. You know you have to leave this closet at some point, but you can’t risk opening the door, not yet. 

 

Every few minutes, you feel the urge to open the door, to leave, but each time, you stop yourself. Not yet, not  _ yet _ . Just in case that thing is still there, waiting. 

 

You’ve just begun to convince yourself that maybe now it’s been long enough, when a resounding rumbling noise shatters the quiet around you. The sound is so loud, your vision whites out in fear, and the walls of the closet tremble. 

 

It takes you too long to realise the sound is your phone in your pants pocket, vibrating between your thigh and the wall. Down the hall, a thundering crash resonates. The creature heard.

 

With a jerky motion, you reach into your pocket, needing to turn your phone off. You need to hurry, but the caller ID makes you pause, for just a second too long.

 

It’s your brother, calling from the house. Safe, probably wondering where you are.

 

The sad relief you feel is eclipsed in a second by and overwhelming terror. The closet door is opening. 

 

Behind it is the creature. With its teared out eyes and its maw of a mouth, opened to swallow your soul whole. It raises a burnt hand towards you. 

 

“Six.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> please point out any mistakes, god knows i didn't spot all of them


End file.
